The Fly Guy

by Colum Sanson-Regan

  Martin turned away, looking back at the road. A cold sweat was creeping from his lower back upwards toward his neck, like flood waters rising on a dam. The road was narrowing as the motorway ended and he slowed to let a car slip in between him and the car in front. The driver gave a flash of his indicators as thanks and eased into the lane. Martin felt light-headed, then realised he had been holding his breath. He inhaled suddenly and deeply. The cold sweat had reached his neck and was spreading down his arms. His shirt was sticking to his skin. He glanced at the passenger seat again. It was Alison, looking at him with a worried frown.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, babe? We don’t have to go. You don’t look right.”

  “Hey, I said I’m fine. We’ll be there in a minute, I’ll feel better once I’m out of the car.”

  When they reached the theatre multi-storey car park, Martin went as close as he could to the entrance and slowed right down, scouring the lines and lines of cars for a gap. There was nothing anywhere near the entrance and they went up and up looking for a space. Around and around they drove following the spiral higher and higher until they ended up parking one level from the rooftop. Martin jumped out of his seat and rushed around to open the door for Alison, making a big show of extending his hand and keeping her eye contact as she stepped over the amber bead necklace and laminated cards.

  As they took the lift down to the ground level, Martin tried to calculate how long it would take him to get back up. He could throw the necklace and cards over the edge of the car park. The necklace would fall and smash on the street and the cards would be scattered by the winds. They would flip and turn down the street, be stepped upon and swept into the gutter, wet cracked and bent.

  As they entered the foyer of the theatre, Alison tightened her grip around Martin’s waist. It was teeming with people in fine clothing, fitted suits and flowing dresses, women with sparkling jewellery and men with bow ties and shined shoes. Those who were not in suits or tuxedos, flowing dresses and furs still carried an elegant cool chic as they sipped European beers or rich wines. The carpets were a royal red, the ceiling high and illuminated by a magnificent chandelier. Martin could hear beyond the hubbub of the crowd the sweet sound of a string quartet gently pushing the swell of harmonies and luxurious melody through the rich air. He wished he had a suit he could have worn, instead of his old suit jacket and jeans. He felt like a shabby cousin, invited to an occasion because of family loyalty, not because any one really wanted him there.

  “I’d like to pop to the ladies before we go in,” Alison said into his ear.

  “I’ll get the tickets then,” he replied, and she kissed him on the cheek. As she turned and walked away Martin felt the tension being drawn from him like a wave going out.

  He queued and was just having the tickets put in his hand when Alison was by his side again, saying, “You won’t believe who I just bumped into.”

  Martin turned and there behind Alison was a man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline and a dusting of silver stubble over a strong defined chin, wearing a black tuxedo with a white rose pinned to the lapel. Next to him was a tanned and slim blonde, younger than him by at least ten years, probably more. She was wearing a deep blue dress which swept to the ground in an elegant wave from her hip to her heel. They were both smiling at him, expectantly. Martin saw the man’s eyes flick over him, taking in his suit jacket and jeans, right down to his scuffed shoes, but the action was so quick as to be almost imperceptible. The smile didn’t change. Alison stood slightly in front of Martin as she spoke.

  “Martin, this is my boss, Andre Exor, and, sorry what was your name again, I’m terrible with names at first.”

  “It’s Cassandra,” said Andre, extending his hand. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Martin. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Really?” Martin replied as he shook it. “There’s not much to hear I would have thought.”

  Andre Exor turned his smile on Alison. “You’re right, he is the picture of modesty. No wonder you’ve got your feet on the ground. Martin, you’ve got a fantastic woman here you know. She is causing quite a stir in the company. Her ideas are turning heads.”

  “Oh that’s great,” Martin said. “Well, she does love her work.”

  “And you, a writer! How wonderful to be able to create intellectual property. It is, after all, the intangible immeasurable resource. Creativity! You two are rich with it! Creativity! That’s what Alison brings, that’s why we love her! Whatever you’re doing—” Andre winked conspiratorially “—keep doing it.”

  Martin shook hands again, and Andre suggested that they meet up for a drink after the show. Alison said that would be a lovely idea, and Andre said that he would call her. There is a lovely spot nearby, he said, and with an enthusiastic “Enjoy the show!” Andre Exor and Cassandra turned away and headed toward the auditorium.

  “Well I didn’t expect that,” Alison said. “Do you want to have a drink with them after?”

  “I guess so, I mean, if you want to.”

  “I think we should.”

  “Okay.”

  Martin checked his ticket and they made their way up the carpeted stairs to the stalls. Their seats were right up at the back of the auditorium. The scale of the room was intimidating. Beneath the great vaulted ceiling and the drapes which fronted the stage, the seats seemed tiny. When he sat down Martin felt as if he was perched on an unstable peak of an elaborate canyon, and should he lean forward he would precipitate an avalanche of the wealthy middle aged, a debris of corsets and bow ties. Alison started to read the programme and he tried to calculate how long it would take him to get to the car and back again.

  “Do you want me to read the translation as we go? There is quite a lot, oh wait, there’s a scene synopsis, that’ll do won’t it? Martin?”

  “You can just pass it to me when you’ve read it, or maybe not, we’ll see. I was kind of expecting not to understand anyway.”

  The auditorium was filling up. Heads moved into place, the low hubbub of indeterminable conversation vibrating up through the air to where they sat. Martin could hear the random brief musical exclamations as the orchestra settled into place. How long, he thought, how long before I can throw Zoe from the car? Throw her to the streets, where she will be dissipated and forgotten.

  “Oh, it’s exciting,” Alison said. “Look, let’s go down there, it’s closer, a better view, come on.” She pointed to seats at the edge of the balcony, several rows in front, which were empty.

  He protested, “We can’t switch seats, what if the people are just late? Look, it’s about to start, everyone is sitting down now.”

  “If they turn up, then we’ll move back, come on, quick.” She stood and he stood with her, and they excused themselves from the row right against the back wall, and disregarding the tuts and disapproving noises made by those around them and those who swivelled their legs to let them past, got to the seats on the edge of the balcony just as the lights began to fade. As the lights dimmed and the murmur of conversation died, Alison leaned into his ear, put her hand on his and said, “See, this is better isn’t it?”

  The orchestra started up and the curtains opened. A giant moon dominated the backdrop. The size of the actors took Martin by surprise. How small they were! They were like figurines, toys in the distance. At first he felt disappointed, and then he felt foolish for being surprised. They were actors on a stage after all, not on a screen. They did not move about the stage with grace, but rather seemed to blunder about, heavy footed and over-conscious of their positions.

  When the singing began he glanced at Alison. She was transfixed. Sound filled the auditorium. The voices rose from the stage toward the golden arc of the ceiling, full of power and dramatic intent. The voices were so much more than the figures in the spotlights, they filled the theatre. It seemed absurd that such powerful streams of sound could be created and controlled by the shapes onstage. They were like fists of noise. They flew around and against each other, battlin
g and crunching in the eaves of the great auditorium. There was not harmony, there was tension and the air was in turmoil. Martin leaned forward and looked over the balcony. He could see all of the heads beneath him, all of the rows and rows of people in the balconies opposite, all focused on one point.

  As the performance unfolded Martin found himself caring less and less about what was on stage and staring instead at the heads below him. The power of the voices and the drama of the stage had hypnotised them, and the tension in the room built and built until, by the time the actress was dancing the dance of the seven veils, Martin saw the auditorium as a room full of decapitated heads on platters, severed from reality, served at the orgy of performance art.

  * * *

  When the performance finished Martin and Alison stood in the foyer while the theatre emptied.

  “I thought there was going to be a break,” said Martin. “An intermission.”

  “Do you want to meet up with Andre? I think it would be good, I’ve never seen him outside work before.”

  “Where do you think we’ll go?”

  “Somewhere fancy I bet,” Alison said as she absentmindedly brushed the front of Martin’s suit jacket. From her handbag, her phone started to ring.

  “Right on cue,” said Martin as she took it out and answered. As she spoke she turned away from Martin. Yes, we’d love to, she was saying and then she started talking about where the car was parked. Martin watched people’s backs go through the glass doors in couples and groups as the last of the audience left the theatre. It was so quick, the transition from full to empty, But I guess that’s what happens when the show is over, he thought. The bar staff closed the shutters and after the rattle and the click there was a thick silence, broken only by Alison’s voice. Okay, she said, then she turned to him.

  “He’s outside now, we can take a lift with him.”

  “What about the car?”

  “We’ll just leave it here and come back for it later. Andre says it’s 24-hours.”

  “I think I left my phone in the car.”

  “Really?” said Alison and started to dial his number.

  “Oh, actually, it’s in my inside pocket.”

  “Let’s go then.” Alison held her arm, he took it, and they walked to the exit. Outside was a long black car. The back door opened as they approached. Andre Exor’s balding head appeared and he beamed at them.

  “Hey, you guys, come on get in!” The back of the car had sets of seats facing each other. Alison and Martin sat in with their backs to the driver. Andre sat facing them, with Cassandra next to him, her body angled away from him, so she had to turn her head to smile at them.

  “Very good of you to invite us,” Martin said, as the car pulled away from the front of the theatre. “Where is it we are going?”

  “It’s a lovely little place, great drinks, some food if you want it. Run by a lovely Greek guy, Savas. It’s members only, so you’ll have to sign up to be a member on your way in, but it’s nothing really. What did you guys think of the opera?”

  “Oh I loved it,” Alison said. “So intense, it really drew me in.”

  “And you, Martin?”

  “Yes, it was quite something. Maybe a bit serious.” They all laughed. “A bit of slap-stick might have been good.” There was more laughter.

  “We’re here,” Andre announced, and the car stopped.

  “Wow, that was quick,” said Alison. They all got out of the car. Martin looked back up the road the way they had come. The theatre was just a few hundred metres away. When he turned back Andre was walking across the pavement with Cassandra on one arm and Alison on the other. They were walking toward an elaborately designed door with a golden plaque above it. As he walked closer to the door he could make out the detail of the carved motifs. There were waves and spirals, and in the centre a circular sun sending out straight lines to the edges of the door.

  Andre waited for him to join them before pressing the bell which was in the centre of a cast of a flower on the wall. Martin could see that Alison was nervous with excitement. The door opened and Andre stepped confidently through, taking the women with him. Martin followed. There was a smartly dressed man at a counter, who smiled broadly and said, “Mr. Exor, good to see you, sir, and Madame Cassandra. You look stunning as always.”

  “Thank you,” said Andre, “I have with me two special guests who need to enlist.”

  “Certainly, sir, shall I put you down as their advocate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, sir and madam, if you would step forward and fill out these membership forms.” His eyes slipped from Alison to Martin and lingered on him for a moment. Andre saw this and said, “This is Martin Tripp, the author,” as if the gentleman at the door would then recognise his name. “They didn’t know I was bringing them here tonight.”

  “Very good,” said the man, “It is a pleasure to welcome you both.”

  Alison filled in her form in a matter of seconds, confidently and efficiently. Martin stepped to the counter and started to fill in his. Under occupation he hesitated before writing Author. At the end of the form there was what seemed to be a confidentiality clause, the breach of which would mean expulsion from the club. Martin scanned the thick paragraph of legal speak before signing the end, with a queasy feeling that he had put his signature to something without understanding fully what it was.

  The man thanked them again and stepped aside, extending his arm and revealing the staircase. Andre took the lead. Alison linked her arm with Martin. He leaned into her and said, “You okay?”

  She nodded and said, “It’s all very exciting.”

  When they reached the top of the staircase the room opened up in front of them. It was a large lounge bar, with plush sofas around small glass tables, wooden panelling on the walls, and vibrantly coloured prints with lights embedded behind them, so that they glowed. There was a long bar with mirrors behind it which stretched to the ceiling. The room was populated with smartly dressed men and women in expensive dresses, their wrists and ears laden with sparkling jewellery. Andre took Cassandra and Alison by the arm again and strode to the bar. Martin followed.

  “I’m buying, what do you want?” Alison and Cassandra chose their drinks, then Cassandra said she was going to freshen up. Alison said that she would, too, and they walked off together. Andre watched them go, then whistled an intake of breath, looking at Martin.

  “Hey?” he said, “Hey? You got a great woman there, Martin.”

  “I know, I know,” Martin replied. Andre turned back to the bar and ordered their drinks then turned back to Martin. “Some interesting people in here, let me show you.”

  He started pointing people out to Martin and naming what they did. There was the deputy chief planning advisor for the city, drinking with the transport secretary. Over there was the editor of the city’s biggest selling daily paper, laughing with the manager of the city’s largest investment trust. Just sitting down near the back of the room was one of the judges from the big television talent show with a bunch of hangers-on, and that guy there with the purple shirt was one of the producers of the show. Coming out from the restaurant room was the furniture designer who set up the Make a House a Home chain. Martin asked, “Do you come here a lot?”

  “Enough. I’ve been a member since the start, so it feels comfortable. It’s a good place to network. But hey, you, Alison says you’re working on something big.”

  Martin dug his hands in his pockets and winced. “Em, it’s, well to be honest, I don’t like talking about it until it’s done if you know what I mean.”

  Andre took his elbow and leaned into him. “I know. I know exactly what you mean.” He squeezed then let go. He picked up his drink from the bar and handed Martin his. “You’ve got to guard your intellectual property, I know. I’m not going to ask you about it. Believe me, I know. You start talking about it, next thing you know there’s a TV show all about that idea that’s taken you years to craft. And a bad TV show, too! One that turn
s what should have been a genius idea into something mediocre and run of the goddam mill. One that uses a half a dozen mediocre writers to patch together a bad script acted by the same old TV faces. Then all the impact of your idea has been taken away and you’re left with something no-one wants to touch. I know, I know, and it’s the best thing, not to talk about it. What it does tell me though is that it’s gonna be great, eh? Am I right? Am I? Go on, tell me I’m wrong.”

  Martin zipped his lips shut. Andre slapped him on the back. “Haha! I like you, Martin. I wish I had that creative gene. Just a little bit of it. I can see it in your eyes. Those eyes. You see things differently. I spend all my time dealing with concrete and steel and numbers. Once a building is up, then it’s a numbers game. The numbers can move, but the building never does. But ideas … ideas can grow and move, they can change things, change the way people see things and if a person sees things differently, well, it can change that person, and you! You are the change. You are the idea that made that change.

  “You know, a building, ah the building only starts fulfilling its potential when the numbers hit a certain point, and most people who work for me only see the numbers. Your Alison, on the other hand, she sees the people behind the numbers, and that makes her different. Because she does that, she sees options that others who are chasing numbers just don’t see! Then next thing, the numbers come back rearranged in an order that no-one who was chasing the numbers could have put them in! You know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Of course, you do, because you’re an artist! You see beyond the ordinary stuff, beyond the money machinery, the profit margins, the dividend yield, the QMV, and IPUs, you see past all that, and I envy that, I wish I could. All I seem to do is make money, money, but is there any learning in that? Is it filling anything other than my pockets? I honestly don’t know.”